Armageddon Rain
by MS-Manuscript
Summary: Water, precious, required, gone. Sun so bright it was literally blinding filled the exchange chamber, making the man flinch behind thick dark glass that consisted of his wielding goggles. A necessity, if he was going to remain on this earth.
1. Hopeless

I do not own Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog.

* * *

The sun rose, again, causing a small but blinding beam to glide through the pin-hole in the dirt and wood roof, bouncing it off a mirror and onto the mechanical eye. The light-run clock started to whine, causing a groan to come from the human that had built it. A pale, long fingered hand reached to the small table by the side of his cot, flipping the mirror on its hinge, facing down so the light hit its non-reflective back, shutting the clock thing up.

The Eye Clock had no official name. Names didn't mean much anymore. And to be honest, neither did time. The Eye Clock wasn't really a clock, not in the slightest. There were no hands, no numbers, no constantly clicking gears, no time piece that anyone would recognize. All it did was whine when light hit the eye. Exciting, right? But it was his alarm clock, waking him when the sun rose, allowing him to continue his existence.

Billy Schrecklich poked his head out from under his thread-bare blanket, blue eyes blinking at the sudden light in his shelter. It wasn't much, just a pin-sized bit of light. But it brought something to the pitch-black surroundings so he could see. Kicking the blanket that was more for comfort than warmth, the lanky man turned over onto his back, sitting up slowly, stiffly, groaning as his back popped and cracked with movement. But he didn't have long to complain and sleep, he had to work quickly before the sun rose too high and the earth became too hot.

Eyes adjusting to the limited light, the room dug out of the ground came into focus and gave him a smile. There was barely anything in it; a cot, the table beside it, a basket with his clothes, and another table filled with gadgets in varying states of completion. The room was small, but he was okay with that. Reminded him of his lab when he was rooming with his henchman. That was so long ago…

Shaking himself out of the memory, Billy pushed himself to his feet, feeling the well-worn dirt under his toes as he tread through the semi-darkness of the shelter to his basket, pulling out his off-white smock. The lab coat had once been a shining, almost blinding, white. A normal white smock, buttons down the side, always teasingly called a dress. It had been modified since its first debut as the trademark of Doctor Horrible. It was dingy, now, stitched in places where there had been rips and tears. The inside had changed dramatically, lined now with a silvery blue material that almost matched the doctor's eyes. It was a hand-made material, one he had never named. Never had the time, nor inspiration to name it. At the time of its creation, it probably would have been something like "Protection Cloth" or something stupid. Now, though, it went without a name, like most of his creations. Because names didn't matter anymore.

Not the name of his Eye Clock, nor the name of his Protection Cloth, not even his own name. Doctor Horrible, William Freund Schrecklich, none of it.

Shrugging into the modified lab coat, Billy pulled on the once-tan pants, now brownish red with dust and time, also lined with the silver blue cloth. Then the boots and gloves, fully lined. Slipping the goggles onto his forehead the man bent down, picked up his canvas and cloth lined pack, slung it over his shoulder, and pulled on a rope hanging from the ceiling. A wooden door opened. He climbed the ladder that was inset to the wall, pulled himself onto the dirt landing, closed the wooden door, and pulled the goggles over his eyes. Then he opened the wooden door that separated him from the surface world.

Sun so bright it was literally blinding filled the exchange chamber, making the man flinch behind thick dark glass that consisted of his wielding goggles. A necessity, if he was going to remain on this earth. Grabbing the edges, he hauled his thin frame up, closed the door, and gazed around from his crouch on the dead grass.

Nothing had changed since yesterday. The land was dry, dead, brown and red. Buildings lay in crumbles and ruins no higher than five stories. A once tall and proud city was gone, demolished, devoid of all splendor that it once held. The sun was now forever a deep red, the result of the dust and dirt and smoke that would never clear the air. Turning a lined, exhausted, and filthy face away from the rising sun, Billy stood, tired eyes scanning for his next direction to take.

Why did he bother anymore? Two years, from his math, and he was _still_ waking up every morning and wandering around the dead city. He wished he knew why. There was really nothing to wake up for other than survival. As he wandered south, he pondered his reason for staying alive.

Two years since Bad Horse had screwed up. Two years since the explosion that created this mess. Why didn't he just give up? There was no reason, no people around. But here he was, every morning, rising with the sun and walking around under its scorching heat. Why bother?

His first stop that day was a bookstore. His favorite, always had been. It was a used bookstore, full of new pages to read, stories behind the stories, and a wonderful cashier to talk to. It looked nothing like the little red building that once stood there. It was now leveled, rubble hiding and crushing the books that had once been inside. Billy shifted some of the mess, like he had done every morning since he re-found it. He was looking for a book still in some shape to be able to read. His store was running dry, however, but he still hoped to find something. Small white lights flickered in the corner of his vision, sometimes growing large before they faded. Some of them gathered around him, then floated and flickered away. He paid them no mind. He was looking for something.

He didn't find it. His bookstore was officially empty of anything salvageable. He'd have to find a new one to tear apart and hope with. Hope. Maybe that's why he woke up every day? Hoping that someone had survived the fallout? Science told him it couldn't happen, he was the only one with the cloth that had saved his life. There'd be no one else. Never would be again. No humans, no animals, no plants, nothing. Nothing lived. So, no, it wasn't hope that kept him going. Hope was long dead.

Dusting off his hands, Billy turned up the street and continued south, ignoring the flickering lights all around him. Some of them crossed the destroyed street, one even grew to have shape and some features, but quickly faded from sight before Billy could even bother to care. He didn't look at them anymore. First time he saw them he had been baffled. Then frightened, then… well, there's that hope word again. He had hoped.

The flickering lights were people. Well, not exactly. Billy never believed in ghosts. But he did believe in energy. Energy could not be made, nor destroyed. This energy just happened to sometimes hold the image of someone that had once lived.

That's all. They weren't people. The first time he had seen one, he tried to talk to it, tried to get the attention of the person. They didn't know him, didn't notice him. They just faded into a ball of light, floating away, gleaming and shining in the dark. It'd flicker in and out from time to time. It was energy, not a person. There were no such things as ghosts. Hope was gone. So he didn't notice them much anymore. There were some he took note of, though, every day. But the ones that moved didn't matter to him.

Speaking of which, he needed food. That _did_ matter to him, for some reason. So it was to what was left of a grocery store. Almost everything had been crushed, and things that hadn't been had most likely gone bad over the last two years. Be it from time, or the radio activity. But there were some things that survived. Cookies, canned food, jerky, the like. Just like the book store, Billy shifted rubble and blocks of concrete, looking for things to eat. He had raided stores all over the city, and his supplies were running low. He'd probably have to move to a new city in a few days. The thought of leaving Los Angeles was an old one, but still strange. Had anything survived outside the epicenter? Probably better than this city had, actually. But he still had ties to this city, oddly enough.

Maybe that's why he still lived. His ties. He wanted to keep a piece of human history going, so he stayed. Human history? For what? Who or what would see it? Even cockroaches had died, there was nothing left. Unless aliens existed, there was no reason to keep history going. Even if he did and lived to be three hundred years old, what would he be able to tell them? That he was the reason the planet was dead? No, his ties to this world weren't what kept him alive. He'd move north to San Fran tomorrow. There were more resources there.

Eight cans of SPAM, two chocolate fudge cookies, and five Saltine packages later, Billy had enough food for the next couple of days. He'd be fine until he got to another city. Now to find another book store.

Hours later, the sun was high in the sky, akin to something like noon. Billy's body cried for food, his legs for rest, his skin for shade. He answered them. Finding an old bank, he sat against one of their semi-standing arches, leaning against its cool shade-making bricks, and opened his pack. He opened a pack of crackers, a can of SPAM, and went to town chowing down.

He never really cared about the radiation fall out these days. It had been two years since the explosion. Any radiation that was left was gone. But he still needed to protect himself from the rays of the sun that now had very little to filter it. So he still wore the smock with the protective cloth, still wore the gloves and pants and boots.

A small breeze picked up, tossing his hair around. It was longer now than it had been when Penny died. Falling into his eyes and ears. But it was blonder now than it was then, bleached by the merciless sun.

Gazing around his resting place, Billy took in a part of the city he hadn't gotten to before. Though he had probably ran a heist in this very bank, since the day the world ended he hadn't been to this part of the city. There were no orbs here, no flickering lights that had once been people's energy. How odd. Kind of nice, not t have reminders of his blunder all over the place. A rare smile ghosted on his lips, disappearing as something white caught his eye. Nothing was white anymore. This was an energy being. Packing up the remnants of his meager lunch, Billy slung the back over one shoulder and headed to the thing.

Standing, staring at the ground, was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than six years old, long hair falling about her back and shoulders, a simple dress with flowers all over it draped over her like a tent. She was barefoot. Billy followed her gaze, finding the remains of a human child on the ground, caught under a large chunk of marble from the storefront. The skull was at her feet. Plunking his pack down, Billy grabbed the handle of a shovel that he carried around, using it to shift the massive rock off the girl's body. There it was, the remnants of a light green dress around the bones of a child.

Using the metal handle of the shovel, Billy broke the sidewalk a bit more, moving it to the side. There was dirt under, of course. Quietly, knowing what he was doing, Billy shifted the dirt from the hole to cover the skeleton. The little girl's image flickered with every shovel full of dirt. Once the skull was covered completely, Billy watched as she blinked, started to move from her previously frozen state, and then walked away, becoming a ball of light before fading away. She'd show up later, wandering lost and unknowing of her surroundings. He had work here to do.

That must be why he was still alive! He had been burying the dead since he first saw Moist's energy effigy. He had killed them, now he had to bury them. No, that couldn't be. He'd have to bury the whole world, and he honestly didn't care about these people. It was just something to do. So he did it. But, maybe it had to do with his life? It wasn't the full reason, he was sure, but it could be part of it. He'd have to give it more thought.

But a little girl wouldn't be out and about on her own. As he gazed around, more and more images came to his eyes. There were a lot of people to bury here. No, he couldn't go to San Fran yet. He had work to do. People to bury.

As he shifted rubble, found dirt, buried bones, more and more lights came to the area. Through the thick tinted glass of his goggles, he could see them group together, separate, come into another group, the like. They would gather around him for a bit, as though watching what he was doing, then go away in a gaggle like they were discussing what they had seen before leaving again.

And just like that, a pang of loneliness flooded him. The ghosts (no, not ghosts, there were no such things. Energy imprints, yes) had each other. Or they didn't notice the world around them at all.

But Billy, he knew the world around him, and had no one to be around. He had created the Dehydration Ray, had woven the cloth that was to keep him from feeling the effects of the ray gun when he fired at a reservoir. He had created all of this without Bad Horse knowing, trying to surprise his boss. He was the one that had shown the mastermind the offending raygun.

Bad Horse was less than thrilled at one of his ELE members going on their own. He had kicked Billy hard, sending him flying across the room, breathless and injured, arms around his head as he curled up to protect himself from further attacks. The huge Chestnut had smashed the ray gun with one giant hoof. The gun's chemical reserve of a mix of stolen resources mixed into a volatile mix as it was crushed. It exploded, sending an orange wave out of the building, across the city, state, country, continent, taking out the world in one fell swoop.

Coughing and hacking, red drops dotting his lips, Billy peeked through his arms to see what had happened, ears ringing from the blast.

He could see the mountains. They were on fire. Mountains? He shouldn't be able to see them, he was in a building…

That's when he knew. The city was gone. He had ran through the destroyed city, water spraying from ruptured pipes, gas leaking from under the city had caught fire, the few standing buildings going up in flames before they too crashed to the ground. And the dead lay everywhere, dehydrated instantly as the blast touched them. He alone was protected by his clothes.

Two years. Two years since he had made the mistake of letting Bad Horse know of his project. And he was the last one on earth.

That was it! That's why he was still alive! He was paying for his crime of killing the earth. He was the only one alive; he had to be the one to bury the dead, suffer for what he had done, give the innocent the rest they deserved.

And that was why the lights were still there. They couldn't rest, they were waiting for the others to be set free.

Closing his eyes, Billy leaned against his shovel handle, tears starting to leak out from under his wielding goggles. He had done this, he was alone because he had been foolish and excited. Now look what it did. Sitting on the ground, in the hot sun, Billy pulled off his goggles and wept into his gloves. There was no hope for him now.


	2. Francisco

The sea was gone. Billy had known it would be, but had been determined to avoid seeing it for the last two years. LA wasn't exactly _far_ from the ocean, though it was quite a walk to get there. Even more so when water was _that_ hard to come by. Problem with making a Dehydration Ray, it dried up all the water. Well, almost all of it. See, two of the staples of the special cloth Billy had made were metal and plastic. So while the rivers and lakes and streams and, yes, oceans, were gone, bottled water was still around. So long as there wasn't a crack in it (meaning opened bottles were gone) he had water. Which helped. But like with his books and food, if it was in a building, it could have been crushed. Crushed water bottles spilled their water. And in this heat spilled water evaporated as though it were never there. The broken pipes that gave up water and sewage were long dry, protected from the ray until they broke open. So hunting for undamaged water bottles was a long and tiresome task.

But Billy had decided to broaden his efforts. What his efforts were he wasn't quite sure. There was survival, there was burying the dead, there was… well, that was about it, actually. Neither of which he really wanted to do. But he did. Standing on what had once been a cruise ship, he gazed around at the vast emptiness that had once been the Pacific Ocean. The ship was on its side, having been suddenly grounded as the water disappeared, falling to the side with nothing to support its keel. Many other boats and ships had done the same, or leaned against each other. The once cool sea-side was now barren and hot. All over the sand were skeletons of boats and fish and creatures of all kinds. He had already buried the thousands of skulls and bones of the people on the streets as he walked here. Balls of light bobbed around behind him, going about their own business of doing nothing. Before him was a vast, mountains plane devoid of all life. And not one image of a person. There were bones in the ship, though, and all the other boats. He'd have to take care of those before…

Before what? Why had he come out here after two years? To see what it was? He knew it'd be dry. The land was coated in white salt, a nice change from the dull red that was LA. But it blinded him, even with the dark tint on his goggles. So, what was he going to do? Turning his back on the lunar landscape, Billy hopped off the hull of the cruise ship and onto the tilted wooden deck. He had work to do, people to burry. Hundreds and thousands of them. Best get started.

Days came, and days went, on and on without number. After two years, he stopped counting. He probably hadn't been at the San Francisco bay more than three weeks, but he decided to stop keeping count. All he knew now was that night was approaching, and fast. Once the sun dipped behind the hills and mountains it'd get dark. There was no moon tonight, just the stars. Though, they were pretty bright now that there was less atmosphere to block them. He'd still have to find shelter for the night though.

He had left his underground room behind in Los Angeles. He had only built it to protect him from the raging heat. At first, the heat was constant, beating down and almost killing him. Instinct had him digging and building an underground shelter. It was warm, but bearable. But he couldn't take it up north with him. So he left it, and all of his extras, there. No cot to sleep on, not whining clock to wake him up, no gadgets that he'd never finish anyway. And he couldn't find himself caring. Though, it did make finding a place to sleep for the night difficult. He'd need to make something later.

Tonight, though, he decided to take the blanket he had found some days ago in a (surprisingly) still standing house, and curl up in the space under the stairs. He couldn't sleep in the house, there were lights in there and family pictures and home-like comforts. They haunted him worse than his dreams could. Besides, houses held the heat in. Under the stairs was cool and dark. He felt like a mole person.

He had climbed hills, entered buildings that couldn't hold his weight, shifted rubble, and buried any and all he could find. In what felt like forever, he was willing to say that he had finished with ten miles up and down the coast, and ten miles inland. It was a lot of work, a lot of bones. But unlike LA, it was clumped together very closely. So close, that shifting one roof found him twenty to thirty lights. He wanted to call this place done.

So there, under creaking steps that lead to a house that he never wanted to enter again, Billy fell into a rock-like sleep.

Moist looked down at him, a small smile crossing his lips as he sat on the cold tile across from his young friend. The fridge rumbled steadily against Billy's back, calming him more than anything in the world could. No amount of science or well-done heists could bring him as much comfort as a cold floor and a plugged in fridge could. Patting Billy's knee, Moist sat quietly with him, offering his support in whatever had riled the mad scientist up. Probably his mother, knowing the way the woman affected his friend.

"Doc, talk to me once in a while, okay?"

"But I can't Moist."

"Why not?"

"You're dead."

"Who said that?"

"I did. I buried you myself. The ray gun…"

"And yet, here I am."

"Well, that's true. But, Bad Horse, he- and I… but-"

"Doc, you should get out of here. It's not healthy for you."

"Where do you suggest I go? There's no one alive, I'm alone. I need to bury everyone."

"Stop torturing yourself Doc. Get out there; finish your life _your_ way. You can bury all of us, but when you're done, who'll bury you?"

Billy sat staring at his friend for a while, unsure how to answer him. The damp henchman grinned at him, taking his hand back and leaving a wet spot on Billy's knee. The grin started to fade, along with his face, his hair, the kitchen behind him… the last thing to fade into the wooden slats of the stairs Billy slept under were Moist's eyes. The hazel that had captivated him so much when he was a young adult blended into the boards above him, their sparks of life turning out to be two small dots of sunlight that crept through the wood. Billy's face was wet. Tears. He chose to ignore them. Moist had always grounded him, kept him from working up a storm into starvation. He'd always give Billy a reality check when his plans got too big and adventurous. Most of the time it came in the form of reminding him that the rent was due in a few days.

Pulling his goggles back over his eyes, Billy scooted deeper into the foundation of the house before sitting up and digging through his pack for breakfast. He had to move on and forget his dream. Moist wasn't there anymore, he couldn't dwell on that. Or he'd never get anything done. Though what he was doing really wasn't that important. He went in circles trying to give himself reason. The human part of him wanted to be optimistic and find a reason why he was alive. The science part of him kept coming up with depressing facts that kept him from feeling whole.

Pulling out yet another can of SPAM, Billy shucked off a glove and dug into it with gusto. To think that two years ago he had been a hard-core vegetarian. No meat, not even fish, ever crossed his plate. The first few days after coming to the realization that he was the last person on Earth, he tried to keep to his diet. Fresh fruit and vegetables were out of the question; they had become dried and shriveled as their water was sucked out of them. Some dried fruits in plastic packages and some vegetables in cans had survived. Problem with them was just the same as the water; they had been crushed. So he couldn't live off of that alone, he had to find other things to supply him with food.

So SPAM it was. He hated it, even now. Meat, the slaughter of pigs for food. It was almost fitting, as he had killed the entire human race along with every animal on the planet. The only thing beside himself that had survived was bacteria. It developed on the bread and other foods that had dried out and sat under rocks. He wasn't sure how, bacteria needed moister to survive. But he had found a loaf of bread that was covered in black, and the second he touched it it crumbled into dust; the spores devouring the inside as well as the outside. It had been sitting on a counter; no plastic or metal to save it.

But the items inside house refrigerators had survived. Plastic and metal were surrounding food. But he learned quickly not to open them. With no power, the few that had survived being swept under the crumbling buildings had let the food within them get warm with the sweltering heat of the sun. Milk, cheese, bread, eggs, everything was spoiled within days of the power disappearing. The stench that assaulted Billy the first (and only) time he had opened one taught him very quickly that he'd be stuck with cans and packages.

The first week was not kind to Billy with food anyway. After most of his life being meatless, his body was not ready for the spiced can ham. Four days of being sick in a landscape where heath meant life was hell.

Two years later, he barely even noticed it. Washing down his meager breakfast with a mouthful of water, Billy shoved his shovel back into his bag and creaked open the loose panel of wood that acted as his door under the stairs. Heat and light assaulted him instantly. He didn't notice it. An idea had struck him as he ate, and he was now going to start on his project.


	3. Kansas

Five years. That was a rough guess, of course. Five years, maybe six, maybe four. Maybe twenty, who knew? Billy didn't. It had been, by his estimation, five years since the dehydration ray had exploded. Five years since he single-handedly destroyed the Earth. Five years since Billy became the last human alive. Five years felt like forever. And with any unluck, he'd be here for many more years to come.

Kansas. Land of the flat nothing. At least, it sure was now. A land that at one time flourished with crops and families was now flatter than ever. There were no hills. There were no mountains. There were no houses, or people, or towns, or plants. It was a dirt patch, nothing more. There were some devastated roads, but nothing that could get you where you wanted to go.

Billy sat on the prow, watching the sun appear out of the ground, sipping his metal canteen of water as it turned the world burnt brown. Hunched over, the man gazed at the star and didn't see it. His mind was far away while his body sat, elbows on knees, hands dangling, existing with nothing. He'd changed in the last five years. After the death of the love of his life, he had changed his coat to red. After a while, he changed it back to white for the simple reason of red drew too much attention at the Laundromat. Three years ago, the white had become a redish brown from dust. Today, it was red from the same dirt, though it would never wash out. It had been baked _in_. His hair was long, tied up and falling down across his neck and back. His face was lined with age dirt and sweat. Oddly enough, there were no lines around his mouth. No creases of grins, no pulls of frowns, no breaks from chats with friends.

He looked old. He was so young, just in his thirties, but he looked ancient. Being the last person in the world and hardly protected from the sun will do that to you. Careworn eyes behind thick dust-covered goggles turned away from the ball of light, back to his surroundings, and down to his gloved hands. How he wished he could wear something else. His white leather gloves, his soft white coat, they were such a deep dirt-red now. He would love to wear normal clothes again. But these protected him from the harsh rays of the unfiltered sun. He had no choice. Hoisting himself to his feet, Billy turned and headed back into his boat.

Three years ago he awoke in San Francisco with an idea. He had tasked himself with burying everyone that had died. So far, he had been walking, and was limited by where he could find food water and shelter. Being so close to what had once been an ocean, there were boats everywhere. And cars. Billy found an off-roading truck and after some fun with a saw, removed the body of the truck. He also had removed most of the shocks, as they were heavy and wouldn't be used much anyway.

Then the trick, which wasn't all that hard, was finding a boat. He found one. It was a small sail boat, not very large. But it had what he needed, with some modification. Long body, lean and pointed. It had the deck that you could walk on and control the sail. And there was a hole in the deck that lead to the hollow body of the boat. With some tools and digging, Billy had scraped away the inside of the boat until the sides and top were almost paper thin. Then he shored them up with fiberglass insulation and plywood, doing the same to the outside of the bottom. He made it keep out the heat as much as he could. It didn't work quite like he wanted, but after putting a door on, it actually wasn't too bad. Since he spent the day outside, the heat was kept out. Then he spent the night inside with a hole in the bottom to let air move, and kept it about ten to twenty degrees cooler.

With some more work, he loaded the boat onto the truck chasse, and raised the sail. With some work, and some guessing, he harnessed the power of the wind to move him faster, further, and give him shelter that he could take with him. It took him about a month to make. Since then, he left the over-populated west coast and headed into the country. He couldn't deal with being around nothing but glowing balls of light or floating people waiting to be buried. He needed to get away. Moist had told him that, though he had forcefully pushed that dream out of his memory. Two years later, Billy pulled open the hatch, hung his water on a hook from the strap, closed up the door, and furled the sail. The morning Kansas wind caught, and he was speeding on his way.

Maps did nothing for Billy now. They were just pieces of paper that could keep the sun off of him. So he just went where the wind let him. Seeing a large boulder ahead, he grabbed the boom of the sail, dug his feet into the deck of the boat, pulled, and leaned back. The boat turned; wheels made for rough roads turned and tumbled over the dry desert dirt. Bowing his head Billy's modified coat collar protected his face as grit kicked up, hair flapping wildly behind him. Kansas. If he hadn't seen the dead sign welcoming him to the dead state he never would have known. Kansas. He didn't care much where he was or what he did, so long as he buried whomever he found in his travels. Kansas…

What a stupid state. He had been here a month and hadn't found a single town or homestead. Did ANYONE live here? Had anyone died? How morbid had he grown, to be disappointed that no one was dead for him to burry and free? It kind of made sense, though. No one to burry, no purpose. He needed to do _something_. That, and he was running out of food.

Sun set, sun rise, sun set, sun rise, the days ran into each other and became nothing more than a blur of time when Billy finally ran out of food and water. Sitting in his boat, the evil genius gazed at his hanging cans and wondered what would become of him now. He needed a town, and fast. Something that might just maybe have water, or food, that survived these last five years. Climbing up to the deck once more, he rode the wind this night. He never liked going out at night. Some instinctual fear he never seemed to have overcome until now. Desperation had led him into the cool night.

And into a town. He felt delirious. Everything was suddenly moving so fast. Blurs, everything was a blur around him. He went from watching sunrises to dirt sailing at night to suddenly finding a town. Everything was going too fast, too choppy. There, he found it, just inside the town's boundary. A gas station, standing and okay. Letting the sail down he let the boat slow itself down, it wouldn't go anywhere. He hopped off, stumbling inside and expecting it to fade away; a mirage of his dying wish. It didn't. Inside were dead drink refrigerators with bottles of soda and water. The soda was long rancid, but the water was perfectly fine; protected by plastic. Wrenching a door open so hard it pulled the hinges off, Billy grabbed a bottle and downed it. The water was warm, stale, tasting of plastic. But it was water. The bottle was empty before he knew it, and Billy sat heavily on the filthy ground, panting and gazing at his new surroundings. There was a fat, balding middle-aged man standing behind the counter, gazing down. Probably at his bones that were more than likely on the floor behind the register. Billy paid him very little attention. Instead, his eyes found the packages of jerky in their foil and plastic pouches. This place was standing. Unlike California and parts of Nevada, Billy found that most mid-western towns and cities had their buildings still standing. The shockwave didn't hit them as hard. The ray had done its job; taking all the water out of everything unprotected. But the explosion the gun had caused hadn't demolished buildings. And for this, Billy was thankful. He had water and food because of it. He'd have to raid the grocery store and other stations now that he had found this one. And a map. He had little use for them, but could at least find out which way he should be going now for more food.

The clerk was buried. The town was buried. The canteens were refilled and re-hung from the ceiling of the hatch. The boxes that stored food were filled and spilling out. Billy had procured a new pillow from a toy store. Life was good once more.


End file.
